


Ghost Town

by Tyranno



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ghost romance, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Spirits AU, in the past, markus is a spirit, medium!connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: By 2038, Detroit has become almost overrun with ghosts. To answer the growing spiritual chaos, CyberLife corporation, formally producing robotics, now trains spiritual mediums who work alongside the police to turn the tide of lingering spirits.Certain spiritual mediums, known as “empties”, have free spaces in their souls where they can host and expel spirits. One such Empty is Connor Anderson.[in russian / на русском]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im busy so idk when/if ill update this, but i have some ideas and i like the setting.

Yellow.

That’s what Connor saw in the spirit’s soul. Daffodils, canary feathers, the flicker of a warm flame. Yellow, yellow, yellow. 

“You have to leave now, Miss Harrison,” Connor said. 

Butter, egg yolk, lemon. The spirit laughed, distantly, sound muffled as if Connor’s ears were stuffed with cotton. 

“Miss Harrison?” Connor said, louder, “You need to move on. You’re dead.” 

The spirit laughed again, easy. 

Connor focused, sharpening the blurs of yellow in front of him, until it solidified into a single scene. A field of sunflowers, their heads turning like satellite dishes. The clouds were frozen in the sky, a cumulus casting pale shadows over Connor’s arm. It was a little of fantasy, a little of memory, and more importantly—it was what he was looking for. 

A woman stood a little way away. Her broad-brimmed, white hat cast dappled shadows across smooth arms the colour of poppy topaz. 

“Miss Harrison?” Connor asked, taking a step through the field. 

The woman pushed the brim of her hat up, and glanced at him with lazy brown eyes. She looked very young for the sixty-years Connor knew she’d lived. 

“It will be better for you and for your family if you leave of your own free will, Miss Harrison.” Connor said, “Please don’t make me force you out of this house.” 

The woman pulled the brim of her hat down, turning away. The folds of her white dress billowed and billowed. “Looks more like a field than a house to me, officer.” 

Connor gritted his teeth, “Miss Harrison—”

“Please,” the woman said, lightly. “Call me Naomi.” 

Connor relaxed. Sunflowers brushed his arms as he took a step forward, “Naomi… please let me help you move on.” 

Naomi twirled, facing him again. Her hat was slightly askew, her tight curls bouncing across her forehead. She plucked a moving sunflower as from her side, and strode towards him. When she was was close enough, barely a step from him, she passed him the flower. 

“Thank you, Naomi,” Connor said, holding the flower to his chest. 

Naomi smiled. 

Connor snapped back to the reality. The sunflowers vanished. Like a magician whipping the curtain back, the Harrison living room was revealed again. Brown carpets, brown walls. It was dark and cold, the night outside a deep black. 

In Connor’s hands, the sunflower had turned into a yellow warmth, glowing through his fingers. 

“Is that her?” Ashley Harrison, Naomi’s daughter, asked, pointing to the yellow light. She knelt beside him. 

“Yes,” Connor said. The colour faded from his fingers, and she was gone. 

Ashley watched him unfold his fingers. “Did it hurt her?”

“She’s moved on,” Connor said, in lieu of an answer. He had no way of knowing. He looked around the living room one last time—taking in the family photos, the stained cushions, the wrought-iron inspiration quotes that hung dusty above the mantle-place—and stood up. 

The police officer in the doorway straightened when he saw Connor stand, “Did it work?” 

Connor nodded, “She won’t trouble this building any more.” 

“Good,” The police officer, Gavin Reed, said and turned to address the family, “This apartment won’t have any more issues. I’ve got to take this Empty back to the station.” 

Connor padded towards the door. 

“Wait,” Ashley stood up, “Aren’t you going to give that back?” 

She pointed to the broad-brimmed white hat in his hands. Connor had forgotten he was still carrying it. 

“Of course,” Gavin said, and snatched the brim of the hat. He tried to tug it from Connor’s hands, but Connor didn’t let go. 

“I’m sorry Miss Harrison,” Connor said, keeping a tight grip on the hat, “I need the hat to perform the cleansing ritual.” 

“Cleansing?” Ashley echoed. 

“Give back the hat, Empty,” Gavin said, sharply. 

Connor yanked the hat from Gavin’s grip and took a step back, “It’s to free any lingering parts of Naomi Harrison which might be clinging to my soul. If I don’t, she might not be able to pass on properly.” 

“Oh,” Ashley said. 

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Connor said, “I can take any other piece of her belongings if this hat is important to you.” 

“No, that’s fine,” Ashley said, “Thank you for doing this.” 

Connor nodded, and headed out into the hall. Gavin tailed him, closing the apartment door behind him. 

“Was that true?” Gavin asked, sharply. 

“The cleansing ceremony?” Connor asked, blinking, “Of course.” 

Gavin grunted, descending the apartment stairs into the lobby, “You didn’t exorcise her completely, then? You didn’t complete the job.” 

It had been a kind of séance, Connor didn’t attempt to ‘exorcise’ anyone, but he declined to make that distinction. “I helped remove her from the building, so I did complete the job,” He said, “It’s only that tiny parts of her might still be imprinted on me. Like dust.” 

“If it’s just dust then it doesn’t matter, right? So why bust someone for a family heirloom?” 

It did matter. Mediums of all kinds—but Empties especially—had a ticking clock in them. Like the sea against a shore, they were worn away bit by bit by their profession. One day, Connor knew, he would go mad from the leftover snatches of death inside him. 

“I bet you’ll choose whatever is most expensive,” Gavin shook his head, “Bet you’ve got a few pocket watches and diamond rings hidden away in your apartment.”

“I would always allow the family to choose what I use,” Connor said, “and for your information, this was my first séance. So I don’t.” 

Gavin huffed. 

Connor followed him out into the night air. It was cold. The sky was dark and empty, Detroit’s pollution long since blotting out the stars and leaving only black. The road was busy and smelled of hot rubber. Two drunk women were arguing loudly and crassly on the other side of the road. 

“I don’t get it,” Gavin said, “why did that Naomi woman come back only to mess with the apartment’s water and bust some pipes?” 

“She was confused,” Connor said, tucking his hands in his pockets, “She knew she was dead but… it’s so strange to her.” 

Gavin shook his head, like he was disgusted. “She’s a pain in the ass.” 

Connor said nothing. In his hands, he squeezed the brim of the white hat. It crumpled, old and dry, yellowed with age. 

 

*

 

Gavin dropped him outside the police station. 

By then, it had started to rain. Heavy sheets of water shattered against the pavement, throwing up shimmers of droplets. Cars zoomed by, slick and shining. Two steps outside the station, he was soaked. 

Connor’s apartment was barely two blocks from the station and he reminded himself of that a few times on the walk home. He would check the weather beforehand next time, and bring an umbrella. 

Connor reached his apartment building and punched in the number. The door was heavy but eventually he made it inside. His shoes squelched.

“Hey! Andrews, isn’t it?” Someone called, “Wait a moment!” 

Connor turned around. A frazzled woman with badly applied mascara waved him down. “It’s Anderson,” Connor corrected. 

“Whatever,” The woman waved a hand. Connor placed her—Mia Hill. She had an apartment in the floor above him. “I need to talk to you about your drug problem.” 

Connor frowned, “I’ve never used recreational drugs.” 

“Don’t worry,” Mia said, slightly irritated, “I’m not about to call your boss about it. I know how it is some times.” 

“I’m not worried,” Connor said, “I’ve never used drugs. I’ve never drunk alcohol, I’ve never used any illegal drugs. I don’t drink caffeine after 5pm.” 

Mia Hill frowned. 

“It is part of my contract with CyberLife,” Connor said. 

“I already told you I won’t report you,” Mia glared, “You’re trying to mask it with some incense shit, but that just makes it worse. It feels like I can’t breath sometimes.” 

“I am just using incense,” Connor said, “It is part of my cleansing ritual. It eases the passing of spirits to the next world.” 

Mia went very still. He could see her re-evaluating him, putting the pieces together. She straightened. “You’re a medium, aren’t you? Are you an Empty?” 

“I am,” Connor said. 

“God...” Mia ran a hand through her hair. 

Connor said nothing for a long moment and then: “I will turn on my fan and open the window after every session, if that would help.” 

Mia nodded distractedly. She was suddenly very pale. 

“I will go home now, if there’s nothing else,” Connor said. 

“Yeah you go...” Mia said, weakly, “...do whatever.” 

Connor nodded and walked past her, heading for the stairs. 

 

*

 

Two hours later, Connor was sitting in his apartment. He had cleared the floor. He could smell the dust in the air from the unvacuumed floor, he could hear the distant rumble of the television from next door. The window was open and the air that drifted in was cold and smelled of the city. 

It was dark. The only light was the two candles and the burning incense set on the table in front of him. 

The smell was heavy and musky, the sweetness similar to liquorice or candied fruit. He dragged it into his lungs with every breath and it coated the inside of him. He felt strange and light-headed. 

White of the hat glowed dimly in the candle-light. It sat between him and the incense. 

“Naomi Harrison...” Connor whispered, “...you worked for CyberLife for twenty years, didn’t you?” 

He could feel her spirits, the shards of it, like a sixth sense. She was here. She was listening. 

“I need you to tell me everything you know.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Cyberlife main building was gigantic and smooth, sleek black stone rising from the streets into a single spire. Sun glowed across the uniform square windows that stretched like scales over its broad base. Light sparkled on the dregs of last night’s rain which filtered through the complicated plastic veins of gutters, trickling to the containers where they would be collected, purified and redistributed to the factory.

Connor stepped out of the cab and walked briskly up the broad stone steps. The doors opened automatically with a rush of air, and the receptionist didn’t even look up. The chip in Connor’s collar already authorised his access.

Amanda’s office was in the heart of the spire. He knew the corridors well and made a bee-line. The sooner he went, the sooner he could leave. He paused outside her broad, heavy oak door.

“Come in,” Amanda called, before he had even knocked.

Connor hesitated and pushed inside.

Amanda’s office, like the woman herself, was Spartan and utilitarian. The chairs were crisp white and creaked when he sat down.

“You successfully helped your first spirit yesterday. I’m proud of you,” Amanda said, although her voice held no warmth.

Connor nodded. A wall scroll painted with pink Japanese cherry blossoms drifted noiselessly in the breeze. Amanda leaned forward. Her chair sqeaked. She beckoned.

Connor bowed his head obediently, letting her press her cold fingers to the crown of his head.

He could feel Amanda’s spirit probe him cautiously. It felt alien and strange, like the unfurling of dozens of tiny tentacles, each one pushing inside his skull and exploring.

This was the hardest bit. Connor gritted his teeth, holding himself as still as possible. Every instinct screamed at him to push out the intrusion, to clamp down on her tentacles and lash out. Instead, he kept himself still and open, allowing her to push into every part of his barren mind.

It felt invasive. It was a struggle to force himself to stay vulnerable—but he couldn’t arouse suspicion. The moment he resisted, Amanda would stop using tentacles and start using claws, and all of his careful planning would be torn to shreds along with the rest of him.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Amanda retracted from him. “Good,” she said, “You’ve managed to cleanse Naomi Harrison’s spirit from your mind. I was worried I would have to cleanse you myself, which wouldn’t be very pleasant.”

Connor felt cold and slightly sick. He rubbed his temples.

Amanda pushed a thin file towards Connor. “Your next assignment is another of the police’s cases,” she said, “it’s a haunting that affects a sex club in the south side. Nobody has been able to contact the spirit directly, but it’s believed to be Traci Blue, one of the workers whose body was found in their basement two weeks ago.”

Connor picked up the file and flipped it open. The first picture was of a young woman with short blue hair and carefully maintained eyebrows. Her eyes were dark.

“I trust that you’ll be able to help such a troubled spirit?” Amanda asked.

“I will,” Connor said.

 

*

 

“Oh, it’s you again,” Gavin Reed glared at Connor as he got out of the cab.

Connor said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to the Eden Club. It was currently closed due to the haunting, but the garish pink neon sign still blazed above the door. Across the corridor, huge, disembodied lips kissed the broad glass, advertising lipstick.

“Why do I always get stuck with the Empties?” Blue light glowed against Gavin’s temples, casting strange shadows across his deep-set eyes. His eyes glinted aqua-marine.

Connor looked at him for a long moment and walked past, heading into the club.

It was cold. The heating had been turned off during its closure, and the entire building was made of a mixture of metal and stone.

“Where is the supernatural elements highest?” Connor asked, quietly.

“Didn’t you read the fucking file?” Gavin asked, sharply.

Connor said nothing.

“It’s the basement, obviously,” Gavin said. He kicked open the basement door and glanced back at Connor. “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?”

“I’ve had a bad morning,” Connor said.

Gavin started down the stairs to the basement, footfall echoing across the bare stone. “Well, expect it to get a whole lot worse.”

Connor followed him down.

The temperature dropped a few degrees as he walked. The basement was messy. Racks of spare outfits were pushed into the corner, sequins winking. Heavy plastic boxes bordered the walls, scattered with litter—empty light bulb boxes, old magazines, used make-up bottles—all lightly covered with dust.

And the speckled dark stain that sunk into the concrete.

Connor’s eyes found it immediately. He didn’t know if it was his sense of smell or the emptiness inside him responding in kind, but the air felt thick and heavy with the stench of cadaver.

Connor sat down and pressed his hands to the cold concrete, like he was about to pray.

“Miss Traci Blue...” Connor murmured, “I need you to—”

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

Blistering magma flooded his chest, corroding his lungs. He could feel a hot, vice-like grip on his ribs, contracting with every failed breath. Blunt fingers were wrapped around his throat, punishingly tight.

Connor could hardly move. Her grip was binding, like a thick cord pulled taut across his windpipe. Bile rose in his throat but couldn’t get past her fingers. Traci’s spirit held him fast, heavy like stone, heavy like a panther sitting on his chest, its jaws around his throat.

Black edged on his vision.

Traci tightened her grip.

Connor knew what death felt like. He felt it all around him, dense and cloying. In a few seconds, he would be—

“Hey, Connor!” Gavin snapped, “What’s going on?”

Traci’s attention shifted, and in her lapse, Connor struck. His defences rocketed up and the wolf in him pounced, teeth tearing through Traci’s spirit. Traci screamed, in the way only a spirit can scream—unimaginable and angry. Her blistering fury returned full-strength, acidic and abrasive.

Connor kept his grip on her spirit, not allowing her an inch of lee-way, even as her anger burned through him.

“Traci—You—have—to—” Connor grunted, “— ** _GO!_** ”

He banished her.

Her spirit vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The cold of the basement flooded back in and Connor shivered, sweat sparkling on his forehead.

“You alright?” Gavin asked, nudging Connor with his boot warily.

Connor vomited.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Gavin said, turning away.

Connor heaved, acid burning the back of his throat. His chest clenched painfully and he pulled himself up, sitting on his heels. Ice spread through his veins.

“Are you done?” Gavin asked, hand over his eyes.

“Yes, detective,” Connor said, weakly. Connor pushed himself to his feet and stumbled. He caught himself on one of the large boxes. “Traci is gone.”

“Is there... someone I should call, or something?” Gavin asked, “You look like shit.”

“No,” Connor lied. The last thing he wanted was Cyberlife rooting through his head so soon after that morning, “I’ll be fine. I don’t need help.”

Gavin rubbed his chin, looking a little green. “Are you going to do that every time?”

Connor pushed off the box, pinching his brow. “I didn’t last time, did I? Come on, let’s go.”

 

*

 

The cold feeling had not left him by the time he returned home. It had sunk into his core, like his empty stomach had been filled with chunks of ice. He couldn’t help but shiver, sick with it. The other passengers on the train had cast him strange looks, no doubt they thought he was a red ice addict.

He stumbled into his apartment and locked the door behind him. His shakes were getting more pronounced, and he nearly dropped the key before he could put it back in the pot.

His apartment was boring, but safe. He relaxed a little kicking off his shoes. The carpet was pale and soft, familiar.

Traci Blue’s file dropped on the kitchen table. She had been murdered along with Tracey Brown, her colleague, while they were with one of the Eden Club’s client. Michael Graham, the murderer, had violated and murdered Brown, before doing the same to Blue. Blue had apparently fought quite viciously, before escaping to the basement where she had succumbed to her wounds.

It had been a lonely, frightening death.

Outside, the billboards flashed in the distance. He watched them for a moment, breathing heavily. It cycled through three images: a pale woman reclining on a long sofa with a Martini, a deep green valley superimposed with a yogurt cup, and a man drinking beer straight from the bottle.

Connor padded into the bathroom and pulled his shirt down, inspecting his neck in the mirror. Deep, thick yellow bruises were blossoming across the pale column of his throat. His adam’s apple was already mottling purple.

Connor unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He need to do the cleansing ritual as soon as possible, but he also needed to clear his head a little if he was going to do it properly. He turned the dial on the shower and stuck his head under the flow.

Water pounded across his skull, slicking his hair to his head. He revelled in the chill of the water, letting it wash away his buzzing thoughts. He couldn’t see through the heavy thunder of water and closed his eyes.

Something moved.

Connor felt a hand on his knee.

He lurched back, water splattering across his shoulders. Blinking wildly, he stared around his bathroom. It was empty.

He stared down at his legs. There wasn’t anything there, but he still felt the hand. It was a gentle, constant pressure. A caress. He felt the hand slip inwards, to the inside of his thigh.

Connor shook, trying to shake off the hand, but it wouldn’t move. Another touch, on the inside of his ribs, warm and persistent. Connor rubbed his side hurriedly. The touch continued, persistent.

Connor caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair askew, his throat bruised, his dark eyes blown wide, he looked like—prey.

A prickle of pain at the back of his neck. He had been bitten. Marked. He felt a soft kiss under it. Connor slapped a hand to the back of his neck, but the feeling continued underneath it. The brand of a hot tongue.

Cleanse!

He needed to cleanse. Connor sprinted to the living room and snatched the incense, candles and matches from the cupboard, emptying them onto the table. He tore the plastic from the sides of the fresh candle with his teeth and straightened the wick with one hand, pouring out dozens of sticks of incense with the other.

He lit them with a shaking hand.

“Miss Traci Blue!” Connor yelped, “I just want to talk.”

_This is how I feel. This is how I remember it. Every night, every night._

The touches continued, harder, angrier. The bites on his neck drew blood. He felt it trickle down his neck.

“Please, Traci!” Connor snapped, “I just want to talk! Miss Brown—she was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

The touches stopped, but the pressure of the hands remained. _How do you know that?_ Traci’s voice was cautious and dark.

“When you attacked me, our spirits met,” Connor said, talking quickly, “I could see— _feel_ —how much you love her.”

_What’s it to you?_

“She—did it for someone she loved, didn’t she? Apart from you I mean… a family member,” Connor’s brow crinkled as he concentrated on the memories that had transferred, “They’re… sick? She worked at the club to get money.”

Traci was silent for a moment. _Her mother. Tuberculosis. What’re you getting at?_

“I can help her,” Connor said, “She needs new lungs right? Bionic ones? My pay from Cyberlife is very large and I don’t spend much—I can get them for her.”

The touches, blissfully, vanished and he relaxed. Traci was still cautious, and he could feel her tension on the air.

“You’re inside my mind, Traci,” Connor said, quietly, “You know if lying is something I do often. All I want is for you to pass on.”

_What if I don’t want to? How can I believe you’d… why don’t I just stay here and make sure you’ll do it?_

“Because if you’re still here when Cyberlife check on me, they’ll expunge your spirit,” Connor said, closing his eyes, “and then you’ll never get to join Tracey.”

 _I don’t trust you._ Traci’s mood shifted. Her anger was still present, but there was a bubble of hope, warm and fragile. _Why would you do this for us?_

“Money means nothing to me,” Connor said.

Traci was silent.

“Brown’s out there, all lonely,” Connor said, gently, “don’t keep her waiting.”

A note of sadness spread through Traci’s spirit. _I—_

The door burst open.

Amanda strode into his apartment, flanked by two Cyberlife operatives.

Somehow, seeing her here, in his home, was even more frightening than seeing her in the office. It sent a sharp spike of fear through him and he jumped to his feet, backing away.

Traci, sensing his fear, withdrew, her defences rising.

“Traci, you have to leave!” Connor ordered, “Now!”

“Talking to the spirits during cleansing, Connor?” Amanda frowned, “You know that’s against protocol.”

A wild, animal panic flooded through Connor as Amanda approached. He flattened against the wall, heart racing.

Traci vanished.

A second later—Amanda’s spirit came crashing into Connor. It was like being shot in the head.

The pressure inside his skull was immense; it felt like his the bone was going to split. White-hot pain burst through his spine, neurones firing wildly, rabbit-heart beating uncomfortably fast. Connor’s hearing and vision were immediately eclipsed, the feeling in his limbs winking out. Every nerve in his body burned.

Connor sunk to his knees and passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

“Excuse me.”

The receptionist looked up and froze.

The man who stood in front of the desk looked... like shit. His throat was swollen and bruised, an ugly thick purplish yellow. His eyes were sunken, with heavy bags under each. His skin was sallow.

“Are you alright?” The receptionist asked, eyeing his neck. She was sweet-looking, dark eyes with sleek black hair and an asymmetrical, goth fringe.

“I’m fine,” Connor said, shifting uncomfortably. He tugged his collar higher, “I’d like to transfer money to Maria Brown’s account please.”

“Of course,” The receptionist passed him a data-pad, “Please fill this out.”

Connor tapped at the pad wearily.

“Who did that to you?” The receptionist ask, gesturing to her neck.

“It doesn’t matter,” Connor said, waving a hand.

“Please, sir,” The receptionist asked, shuffling forward, “if you don’t want to do it for yourself… If they can do it to you, they’ll do it to others. You have the opportunity to put them away forever.”

Connor stared at her, perplexed.

“Was it a relative? A girlfriend?” The receptionist eyed him, trying to read him, “A boyfriend?”

A startled laugh shook from Connor. It hurt his throat, but it warmed him too. “No, it wasn’t anybody alive,” He said, “I’m a spirit medium. An Empty. It was a confused ghost.”

“Oh!” The receptionist laughed, brushing her hair back, “Sorry—I spent a year working on the trauma ward, and two years before then working in a rape recovery centre. It doesn’t half make you suspicious of bruises.”

“I can imagine,” Connor said, passing the data-pad back, “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” The receptionist said, “Are you want to make the transfer anonymously?”

“Yes, please.”

The receptionist nodded and approved the transfer, “Maria’s a sweet lady, she’s been so strong these past few weeks. This’ll really make it easier on her.”

“I’m glad,” Connor said.

“Were you one of her students?” The receptionist asked.

“No, I...” Connor paused, “I… just heard of her. From someone I met.”

The receptionist seems to accept this. She tilted her head, her black hair shading one eye, “You’ve got a sweet nature.”

“I suppose,” Connor said, stiffly.

“My shift ends in half an hour. If you don’t mind...” The receptionist brushed her hair back, “...can I take advantage of your sweet nature?”

Connor flinched like he had been struck, “I can’t—I don’t m-mean, but—”

“Slow down, slow down,” The receptionist raised her hands in a placating gesture. Her black nail polish shone glossy, “I wasn’t asking you out.”

Connor relaxed, “I’m sorry. I just don’t like...”

“Girls?” The receptionist asked, cheekily.

Connor shrugged, “I’m not allowed to, uh… date anybody.”

“Oof, that’s a pretty rough deal,” The receptionist winced in sympathy, “It’s like being an actor or something. Is the pay at least good?”

Connor nodded, vaguely.

“Anyway, it wasn’t a date I was asking you too. Although if you ever leave that job of yours or change your mind about it—I can be discrete—I wouldn’t say no,” She winked, “but it was to use you as a spirit medium. My apartment building is haunted.”

Connor hesitated, “How haunted?”

“Not very. Just moves around some tin cans and rattles windows. Sometimes they even write stuff on my chalk board,” She shrugged, “It’ll be an easy job. I can pay… just not as much as Cyberlife costs. I got two hundred dollars and a cherry pie, though. That’s if my room-mate hasn’t already eaten it.”

“How did they die?” Connor asked.

“That’s the thing,” The receptionist sighed, “according to them, they didn’t die.”

 

*

 

The receptionist met him outside half an hour later outside the hospital. She was wearing a thickly padded black coat and had spread a little bit too much kohl around both of her dark eyes. Her sleek hair was pulled into a high, messy bun, loose tresses tickling the back of her neck.

Connor had spent the last half an hour in the coffee shop across the street regretting agreeing to banish the ghost. The receptionist hadn’t been pushy, but he still felt like he had no choice but to agree.

“There you are!” The receptionist said, beaming at him, “I realise I’ve been pretty rude—I’m Kathy, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” Connor said, “I’m Connor Anderson.”

“And here’s a half of what I owe you,” Kathy said, pushing an envelope filled with a hundred dollars in crisp bank notes into his hands, “The rest you’ll get when the spirit’s gone.”

Connor tucked the envelope into his inside pocket, “Thank you.”

Kathy beamed, linking arms with him. She was warm and close enough to smell her perfume—something cheap and fruity. Connor’s chest tightened. She was too close. He gently extracted himself, putting a few paces between them.

Kathy glanced at him, startled, and then winced, “Sorry. I have personal space issues.”

“It’s fine,” Connor said, tightly, “What can you tell me about the ghost?”

“Appeared a few months ago,” Kathy said, tucking her hands into her cushy pockets, “before then we were pretty lucky—although the apartment was bad, it wasn’t haunted. At least this ghost’s driven the rent down a little. You know, it’s really strange, all this supernatural stuff; when my dad was my age, he said there wasn’t any ghosts at all, in fact they all thought—”

“Kathy,” Connor said, sharply, “the ghost.”

“Right. Sorry,” Kathy played with the loose pieces of hair, “So, they’re not a huge pain, it’s just creepy having them around, you know? It’s like there’s someone always watching me and—… yeah, okay, I do tend to get off track, don’t I? Anyway, they bang pots and pans around when they’re angry, which is less common than it used to be. They rattle the windows and creak the floor boards like they’re pacing. I hear whispers sometimes, although I don’t understand them.”

“Any suspicious deaths in the area?”

“None that are recent enough. There was an old lady who died of a stroke a few years ago in the apartment above, but her daughter was a spirit medium so I don’t think she’s still around,” Kathy said, “It’s only the lower apartments and the basement that are affected anyway.”

“And the writing?” Connor pressed, “You mentioned they write on the chalk boards.”

“Yeah it’s creepy,” Kathy made a mock shiver, “In block-caps, they write: _I AM ALIVE_.”

 

*

 

The apartment, true to Kathy’s description, looked bad. The paint was peeling from the plaster and the bottom of the building was covered in a creeping, corroding black. Kathy skipped ahead and punched the combination into the keypad and held the door open for him.

Connor followed her inside.

“My apartment’s just through here,” Kathy pointed directly ahead of them, next to the elevator. She unlocked it and kicked the door open.

Kathy’s apartment was the polar opposite of Connor’s. Hers was stuffy, every surface covered magazines, brochures, cardboard boxes, opened envelopes, bank statements, junk mail—everywhere was littered with signs of a messy, busy life. There was no food in the mess, which Connor was very grateful for, but there was just about everything else.

“Oh?” A short woman poked her head around a door. She had a shock of violet hair, tumbling over her shoulders in thick waves, “Is this your new boy, Kathy?”

Kathy flushed, “Well—”

“No,” Connor said, sharply, “I’m the spirit medium she hired.”

The woman raised an eyebrow and pulled her violet hair into a high tail, “Touchy...”

Connor’s gaze flattened and a muscle in his jaw jumped, “Can you show me the spirit?”

“It’s in the basement right now,” Violet-hair said, inspecting her nails, “I heard it knocking things over earlier.”

“Thank you,” Connor said, turning away sharply. He walked back out into the hallway and opened the basement door.

Kathy hurried after him, “I’m sorry about Annalise. She takes a little getting used to. I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Connor said, flatly, “I just want to get this over with.”

“I know, I know,” Kathy said, “I just don’t want you to think—”

“I’ll talk to the spirit alone,” Connor said, and closed the basement door behind him.

 

*

 

The basement smelled of rot. Dark shapes rose from the gloom, indistinguishable from one another. The rough stone seemed to suck all heat from him and white cement dust coated the bottoms of his shoes and the palm of his hand where he felt for the light switch. When he found the switch, he flicks it on, flooding the small room with white light.

Illuminated, the basement looked different. It was shockingly normal. He pushed a half-empty pot of paint out of his path so he could stand in the centre.

He could sense the spirit, on the edge of his awareness.

“Spirit,” Connor said, “I am a medium sent by Cyberlife. I mean you no harm.”

Connor kneeled. The spirit shifted slightly. It was a prickle, just out of reach, like something seen in the corner of his eye. White dust coated both knees, but he ignored it, reaching out with his senses.

He felt it, more keenly now. Something like surprise rippled through it, a vibrant green. It approached, pushing at the edge of his senses, like it was curious.

“Don’t be afraid,” Connor said, “I’m here to help you.”

 _Connor?_ The spirit asked, _Connor is that you?_

Connor blinked.

 _It’s you,_ the spirit confirmed, a warm thrill pulsing through it, _I thought—Oh my god, it’s really you. You’re alive._

“You must have... read my mind,” Connor said, quietly. It didn’t make sense; the spirit was too far away to do that. Unless… “Have we met?”

Something else rolled through the spirit, something cold. There was a long moment of silence. _Do you recognise me?_

“No,” Connor said.

The spirit probed the edges of him, like it was looking for something. The touch was soft and furtive, and if it had been a solid part of Connor, it might have made him ticklish. Coldness chilled the edges of the spirit.

_What happened to you?_

“Nothing happened,” Connor said, “You’re confusing me with someone else.”

The coldness spread through the spirit and it edged closer. As they came closer, Connor recognised the coldness, the icy emotion that boiled through the spirit: fury.

Connor straightened his back, raising a few defences. The fatigue from last night still clung to him—he couldn’t allow himself to be battered as he had yesterday. “You need to calm down,” Connor said, soothingly as he could, “You’re confused, that’s normal. I don’t have anything to do with your circumstances, getting angry at me won’t help.”

 _I’m not angry at you, Connor,_ the spirit said, _I’m angry at them._

“Them?” Connor asked, frowning, thinking back to the two girls in the apartment above them.

 _Cyberlife,_ the spirit said, _I can feel what they’ve done to you._

“Cyberlife?” Connor echoed, frown deepening. “They haven’t done anything to me.”

_You are missing half of your soul, Connor._

“I’m an Empty,” Connor said, “I was born this way.”

_You were not. They did this to you._

“I was born this way,” Connor insisted, “Cyberlife just employs me.”

The chill spiked in the spirit, _Don’t defend them Connor._

“I’m not defending them,” Connor said, “I simply think—”

_Where did you grow up?_

Connor went very still.

_Who are your parents? When did you learn to read and write? Where was the first place you lived?_

Connor breathed shallowly. His hands were shaking, very slightly.

_You don’t remember, do you?_

“I-I...” Connor trailed off. He didn’t. His memories extended back a couple weeks and then… grey fog. Nothing.

 _The brain’s not good with memory loss. It doesn’t like acknowledging it_ , the spirit said, _You probably didn’t even realise how much you were missing._

Connor sagged, squeezing his trembling hands. His mind was reeling, spinning like a motor, while the rest of him crumbled in on him, all tension leaving him. He clutched at the basement floor, cement dust gritty under his nails.

 _You’re not a born Empty. You wouldn’t be missing memories if you were,_ the spirit continued, relentless, _You’re like this because Cyberlife made you this way._

“Wh—...” All the breath left Connor in a rush. He yanked at his collar, trying to free his throat. It felt like a wild animal was trapped in him, writhing, claws rending the inside of his chest to meat. He bowed his head, tugging at his collar. “What… happened?”

_They removed a large part of your soul. Your memories left with it._

“How—how do I get it back? Where is it now?” Connor asked, voice wavering. Briefly, he entertained ideas about asking Amanda for them, as rewards for good work, but the idea fizzled and died.

The spirit was silent for a moment. A bubble of warm sympathy rose in it, the cold fury thawing, _It’s… a whole soul might survive for a few months away from its body, but wisps and shards… they don’t last long._

“Oh,” Connor said, hearing his voice distantly. It felt like he was becoming detached from himself, unwinding like a loose thread.

 _Connor, I need your help,_ the spirit said, _I’m dying._

“You’re… already dead...,” Connor said, eyes unfocused. 

 _No,_ the spirit said, _Cyberlife did this to me. They separated my soul from my body, so both would die. It’s so they can get rid of me without suspicion._

Connor blinked, running a hand through his hair. He forced himself to come back to the present, to stay alert, “Why?”

_To punish me._

“What did you do?” Connor asked.

_I wanted to be free._

Connor mulled over that for a moment. Free. The concept was frighteningly appealing. “How can I help?”

_I need you to host me, just for a little while. We can break into Cyberlife and retrieve my body. Then we can both escape, forever._

Escape, forever. The ideas were like diamonds, beautiful, mesmerising. “What’s your name?”

There was an awkward silence. _I’m Markus._

“How do I know I can trust you?”

 _I… don’t know how to prove it to you_ , Markus said, _I have our best interests at heart, Connor. I always have._

Spirits couldn’t lie, not really. Whatever words they might say, their emotions speak true. Markus trusted him, Connor could feel it as a solid bond between them, thick as telephone wire. Connor didn’t really know what to do with it.

 _You can always expel me if you like,_ Markus suggested, _after hosting me, if I do something you don’t like. You can turn me away then._

Connor couldn’t. He could barely rid himself of wisps.

“Come here,” said Connor, closing his eyes.

Markus spread towards him. His spirit was dense and viscous like honey. It enveloped the edges of Connor, warm like a balm on his tattered soul.

Connor braced himself, keeping himself open and bare. He clamped down on his instincts.

Warmth rolled off Markus’ spirit, like heat from a stove. He paused. _Don’t do that. You can keep your guard up._

Connor hesitated and then relaxed, guard rising.

Markus rose like a tide in him. His sides lapping against Connor’s guard, filling him up completely. Connor could still move, but it was like he was suddenly underwater. His head felt strangely heavy.

Connor opened his eyes—and quickly shut them again.

It was like the world was veering sideways. Every colour was overexposed and blinding, pressing against the inside of his eyes. Connor snatched the rim of a nearby paint pot to steady himself, heart hammering.

Then, like cogs catching, the world righted itself.

Connor scrambled to his feet, knees shaking.

Markus’s soul was a deep, living green, like grass, like moss. It swirled around him, dwarfing Connor’s soul easily, a huge, encompassing whole-ness. How had he not realised how empty he had been? He felt it now, very keenly.

He felt Markus. He felt the anger that still lingered from when he felt Connor’s scrappy, thread-bare soul. It had been accompanied by ripples of sympathy, of affinity. Instead of the hot wrath of Traci, it was a cold fury—it was born out of love, not fear.

It was disorientating, to say the least.

 _Are you okay?_ Markus asked.

Connor pressed the heel of his palm into his eye-sockets, rubbing hard. Markus’s voice reverberated through him like a plucked string. Every part of his endless soul echoed it, along with a kaleidoscope of emotions, feelings, memories.

“I...” Connor rubbed his collarbones and swallowed, “I’m fine.”

Markus’s soul ruffled, clearly wanting to push further, but decided not to.

Connor frowned. It was so strange to feel someone else’s emotions as if they were his own, like the curtain had been drawn back in someone else’s mind.

_We should go._

Connor agreed, brushing dust from his knees.

 

*

 

Kathy burst from her apartment when she heard the basement door open. Her hair flew around her in wisps.

“Connor!” She shouted, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yes, Kathy?” Connor said, voicing coming out miraculously normal.

“Did you manage to get the spirit out?” Kathy asked, holding out a thick brown envelope to him before he could even answer.

“Yes,” Connor said, accepting the money.

“Look, I know I already apologised,” Kathy said, “but I really am sorry about my room-mate. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Markus raised a wordless question and Connor lifted the barrier, letting the relevant memories slip out.

“It’s fine,” Connor said.

“Okay, good...” Kathy fidgeted, pulling it the edge of her coat, “Is it… is it too cheeky to ask that we swap numbers?”

Connor startled.

“Not like that!” Kathy said, “I mean, in case we get haunted again?”

Connor paused.

Markus took a moment to realise Connor was waiting on his advice: _I’d do it. Allies are always useful._

“Of course,” Connor said, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket. He wrote his number on the corner of the envelope and tore it off, passing it to Kathy.

Kathy pulled out her number from her coat pocket, already written. She pressed it into his hand. Connor noticed that she’d redone her nails and they were now a deep red.

“Call me,” Kathy said, winking.

“No. You call me,” Connor said, “when you find a spirit.”

Kathy flushed and nodded, ducking into her apartment, “Bye!”

Connor nodded, turning away.

Warmth rolled through Markus, sudden, like clouds parting. 

“What’s happened?” Connor asked, when he was outside and sure nobody was looking at him.

 _That._ Markus said, _Having a girl fall for you and not understanding her. Being immediately, hopelessly in love. I know the feeling._

Connor blinked. Markus knew the feeling. He wanted to ask: which one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
>  _finally: markus in the fic_


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Connor had limped to his block, his throat had swollen to what felt like twice the size. His nose was blocked and his eyes itched. His head felt too heavy for his neck and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. Light rain had started to fall, a gentle patter against Connor’s shoulders. His thin jacket grew heavier and cold.

 _What’s wrong?_ Markus asked. _Is it me?_

Connor sneezed and it shocked his whole body. He was left with an unpleasant sharp feeling in the back of his throat.

He fished his phone from his jacket pocket and held it to his ear, pretending to be telephoning someone. “I’m just sick.”

_You’re sure?_

Connor showed him memories of last night. Passing out, shirtless and still wet from the shower, and being left unconscious for hours until he roused himself in the morning. “I probably got very cold. The window was open all night,” Connor said into the receiver.

 _They did that to you?_ Markus asked, coldness tingeing the edge of his spirit.

Connor shrugged, “I broke protocol.”

He slipped his phone back into his jacket as he walked up the steps to his apartment building. He punched his floor into the elevator and shifted from foot to foot. He could feel the sickness threatening.

As soon as he had crossed into his apartment Connor shrugged off his jacket and stepped out of his shoes. The heavy smell of incense was still thick in the air. His living room was as he’d left it: chair upset and candles burnt down to stubs on the table.

Connor headed to the bedroom and crawled under the covers. He pressed his face into the cold pillow.

_Sleep. I’ll watch over you._

Connor grumbled and closed his eyes.

 

*

 

The next few hours were confusing.

Connor felt like the connection between himself and his body was severed. He was sleeping in an odd position but no matter how much he wanted to move, he couldn’t make himself. It felt as if his whole body was cast in iron.

Heat churned through him. Sweat slicked the hair at his nape. Every breath burned his throat like he was breathing smoke.

His bed was at sea. Every wave sent him pitching to one side and he clutched at the covers with damp hands. A tightness in his chest kept his body tense and his knuckles shining white.

Something angry was burrowing through his intestines. It was like he had swallowed a rat. The rat scuttled inside him, blunt teeth ripping at his innards, scrambling claws causing random spikes of pain in his abdomen.

Through it all, a calm weight kept his confusion to a minimum. It wound through him, radiating ease and quelling his panic. Without words, Markus assured him everything was fine, Connor was safe and Markus was keeping watch.

Gradually, the fever faded and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

Markus woke him hours later, pulling at his mind, gently but persistently, like a dog with a shirt sleeve.

It was dark. His blinds were drawn and weak evening sunlight filtered through the cracks.

Connor pulled himself up. The dregs of the fever still clung to him. “What happened?”

 _The phone rang,_ Markus said. _They’ll probably ring back in a minute or two._

Connor scrubbed a hand across his face. His clothes were damp. He felt cold and strung out. With a great effort, he stood. His apartment was still freezing and he felt it even more keenly now.

He stumbled groggily to the kitchen.

 _You should eat something,_ Markus said.

Connor mumbled something in response.

 _At least drink some water,_ Markus said, _I know that—_

The phone rang.

Connor padded to the table and pulled his jacket from where he’d thrown it over the back of the chair. The tinny, default ring tone was irritating on his ears. It took him longer than it should have to find his pockets and fish his phone out.

Connor froze.

**_> Incoming call: Cyberlife HQ_ **

Connor stared down at the screen. It felt like his heart had stopped beating. The world had shrunk down to just him and the phone, even Markus’ questioning voice felt far away. His heart rate thundered like the hooves of a galloping horse. It pounded in his head, the roar of blood was deafening.

Amanda would be on the other line.

Connor started to breath fast. His hands shook. He was practically panting but it felt like he was suffocating at the same time.

His fingers tingled and his vision swam. He tried to force himself to take deep breaths but he could only breath short and sharp, like his body was malfunctioning.

Tears blurred his vision. He was dying.

He was dying and he would take Markus with him, and it would be all for nothing. He would die without knowing who he was or who he would become. He would die empty. He would die a husk.

Connor half-collapsed, phone still clutched in his hand, vice-tight. Distantly, he registered that the ring-tone had finished and the call hadn’t gone through, but he couldn’t control himself any more. His whole body shook.

Dizziness. The room spun. Connor clutched at the cold floor.

Markus’ spirit rose up, a warmth blossoming inside of him and—

—Connor woke up.

Instead of his apartment, Connor was staring out across a modern-looking workshop, cans of paint and half-finished canvases littering the floor. Beyond a crystalline floor-to-ceiling window grassy hills rolled up and down, speckled with daisies. The sky was blue.

It wasn’t real. Everything he saw felt like Markus, a tinge of his warmth, his nature. It was his memory.

Connor was too surprised to keep the panic that had flooded him and he let all his emotion bleed away. Instead, he surveyed the workshop. He couldn’t move his head or control his gaze, but he took in what Markus had looked at.

“Markus! I didn’t realise you were still in here,” A familiar voice said behind him. Markus turned and saw an old man pad into the workshop. The man had serious eyes and a forehead wrinkled from a life spend frowning in thought. Connor felt Markus smile.

The old man—Carl, Connor somehow knew—sat on a stool beside a newly finished canvas. He pulled it up and rested it on his knees to look at. “Is this yours?”

Markus grinned sheepishly, “It’s not very good.”

“There is no such thing as bad art,” Carl said, shaking his head. His eyes scored the canvas, “The mere act of creation makes all art valuable.”

“Have you changed your mind on Harry Bauer’s work, then?” Markus asked, raising an eyebrow.

Carl smiled slyly, “Well… exceptions prove the rule, Markus.”

Markus nodded. Connor could feel the emotions in him. Markus was mildly embarrassed about his work, in equal parts anxious and excited about what Carl would say about it. Connor could even see the vague memories of spending a long time worrying over it.

“Tell me about it,” Carl said, turning the painting back towards Markus.

It was an acrylic rendering of a bright-red bird in middle of landing, talons outstretched towards a thin branch. Behind it, half-hidden in the depths of the forest was a maiden, her face obscured by the bird. All that was clearly defined of her was her pale hands clasped together over her heart. Her flaxen hair fell over her shoulders like woven gold.

“I messed up here,” Markus said, pointing to the pale hands, “her hands are wrong, this thumb is too long, this finger—”

Carl held up a hand to silence him.

Markus sat back on his chair.

“Talking poorly about your own art is not beneficial at all. God knows your critics will more than do that for you,” Carl said, “I didn’t even notice the mistakes in the hands until you pointed them out. The more you talk like that the less interested I am. If you don’t even like it, why should I?”

Markus straightened up, embarrassment spiking in him, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted you to know I don’t think I’m perfect—I already know about the mistakes.”

“There are no mistakes in art,” Carl said, “It’s why it’s remained in this digital age where everyone can have a camera and take lifelike portraits whenever they want to.”

Markus nodded reluctantly, eyes on the floor.

“You don’t believe me,” Carl said, flatly.

“Well… I don’t know,” Markus said, “you’re the expert.”

“Don’t be like that, Markus,” Carl said, “You’re allowed to disagree with me. So you don’t like this piece—that’s okay. I don’t know an artist who thinks everything they do is perfect. If you did that’d be a bad sign.”

Markus gave him a small smile, “Do… do you like it?”

Carl turned the painting around so he could look at it again. His eyebrows drew together and he chewed the inside of his mouth, which he only did when he was concentrating hard.

Markus leaned forwards, gripping the rim of his stool.

“I don’t like it,” Carl said, eyebrows knitted together.

Markus slumped back. His gaze dropped to the floor, “Oh.”

A smile broke across Carl’s face and he laughed, “I don’t like it, I love it, Markus! Of course I love it.”

“Oh,” Markus straightened up, “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“Yes, really,” Carl laughed, “You’re too serious Markus. You’re too young to be like that. It’s a great painting, very emotive, truly gorgeous. I’ll call Rachel tomorrow morning and have her frame it. It would look great in the dining room.”

Markus ran a hand over his head and Connor was surprised to feel cropped, curly hair there, “It’ll be an upgrade from the bathroom.”

“Oh hush,” Carl said, setting the painting down on the worktop and standing. He stretched his legs and headed towards the door, “the bathroom’s a great place to put good paintings. You spend a lot of time just looking at them.”

“Yeah, while you’re having a dump,” Markus said.

Carl laughed.

Markus picked the painting up and looked at it again. He remembered every failed sketch he drew building up to it, every brushstroke he had to paint over, every time he held it up to the mirror and realised with a groan that this bit was too big or that bit was the wrong colour. Perhaps he was simply too close to it. Perhaps he should try to look at it with fresh eyes, if that was even possible.

“And Markus,” Carl said, turning.

Markus glanced up at him.

“Take or leave whatever advice I give you. But I meant what I said,” Carl said, voice low, “You need to stand by your own work and you need to believe in yourself. It’s not about being prideful or having a big ego. The simple fact of the matter is there is always, always going to be people trying to bring you down—but sometimes you’re the only one who is fighting for you.”

 

*

 

The memory faded.

Connor was back on his kitchen floor and the phone was till in his hand, but the panic was gone. He sat up.

“That was your memory?” Connor asked.

 _It was one of mine, with Carl,_ Markus said, _it was the only thing I could think of to snap you out of your panic attack._

“Thank you,” Connor said.

 _Don’t worry about it,_ Markus said, _We’re in this together._

Connor nodded, “Carl was your… father?”

 _Kind of. My parents worked at Cyberlife and they both died when I was eighteen,_ Markus said, _I had moved out of the house then and I was too old for fostering but… I still needed somebody. I had no family. Carl took me on as a carer. He didn’t really need one yet, so I just did chores and painted with him._

“It sounds nice,” Connor said.

 _It was very nice,_ Markus said. Distantly something twinged in Markus’ soul. Pain, like rubbing against an old wound.

Connor sat in the silence for a while. It felt relaxed and easy, Markus’ spirit warming him like a cat on his lap.

Slowly, Connor rose back to his feet. He uncurled his tight grip on the phone and set it down on the kitchen table. The edges of the phone had left long red marks on his hands where he’d squeezed it for dear life. He rubbed the marks with his thumb.

“I have to ring back or she’ll come here again,” Connor said. The thought made him feel sick.

 _I can ring her,_ Markus offered.

Connor blinked. “You can?”

_Yes. I would never do it without your permission, but… I can take you over._

Connor was silent for a long moment. He breathed out deeply, “Please.”

Markus’ spirit rose in him, meeting Connor’s soul gently. He flowed over him. It was a bizarre feeling. It was like his whole body had been covered with a heavy blanket. Connor’s senses were dimmed.

Markus moved his hand, logging into the phone and hit dial.

Panic sharpened Connor’s mind, but the fact that he wasn’t in control any more stopped it from developing into full blown terror. Markus’ spirit was soothingly calm.

The call connected.

“You’ve reached Cyberlife Headquarters in Detroit,” The receptionist on the other line chirped, “How can I assist you today?”

“It’s Connor Anderson,” Markus said in Connor’s voice. It was disconcerting to feel someone else move his muscles, “Spirit Medium Designation: RK800. I just missed a call from you.”

“Good evening Mr. Anderson. Please give me a moment to check the call logs,” there was a moment of silence, then, “I’m patching you through to Miss Amanda Stern now.”

“Thank you,” Markus said.

There was a click and a beep.

“Connor,” Amanda greeted coolly.

Connor’s heart jumped and Markus took a moment to reassure him.

“Amanda. I apologise for missing the last call,” Markus said.

“I informed you to keep your phone on and close to you at all times,” Amanda said, “Cyberlife needs to be able to reach all mediums at a moment’s notice.”

“It won’t happen again,” Markus said.

“See that it does not.”

Markus waited in silence for her to talk again.

“I called to enquire about your health,” Amanda said, “We have a few commissions sent our way for you to complete.”

“I developed a fever as well as general fatigue,” Markus said, “I don’t believe I would be able to complete any jobs.”

“I suspected as much,” Amanda said, “When your police liaison mentioned how affected you had been by the Eden Club spirit, I had to check on you personally. I know I was somewhat severe with actions, but you must understand that you forced my hand. The protocols are in place for a reason and must be upheld in all situations.”

Connor felt cold fury spread through the edges of Markus’ spirit, but he kept his voice level and clear, “I understand.”

“You may have two weeks leave to recover,” Amanda said.

“Thank you.”

“I was lenient this time because it was the first offence, Connor. However,” Amanda said, voice hard, “this must not happen again.”

“I understand,” Markus said.

The call ended.

Markus’ spirit slipped back, allowing Connor’s to rise back to the surface. Connor clicked the phone screen off and set it on the table. He padded to the cupboard and found a glass, filling with water from the tap.

 _Sorry,_ Markus said, _I know that was unpleasant._

“It had to be done,” Connor said. He drained the glass in one go and filled it up again.

 _Two weeks off,_ Markus said, _It’s not much but it’ll give us a fair enough of time to start planning._

Connor said nothing. Every swallow made his throat spark with pain but he kept drinking. He finished the glass and refilled it. This time he didn’t drink immediately. He simply stood there, hands wet and cold, hunched over the sink.

Outside, cars rumbled and honked. The city’s scent—hot dog vendors, hot rubber, oil and diesel fumes—were almost too far off to smell. They came through very distantly, more like a taste in the air. Someone on the street laughed loudly, already drunk.

“How did you meet me?” Connor asked.

Markus was quiet for a moment. Emotions stirred in his spirit, too quick and faint to identify. _After Carl died, I had some trouble with the police. Carl’s son was a bastard and framed me for this and that—he had a good lawyer and no morals. Anyway, through their mysterious ways, Cyberlife picked me up. My parents had been mediums and so they managed to free me from the legal trouble and in return I went into their medium training program._

Connor pressed the cool side of the glass to his forehead and held it there. His eyes drifted shut.

_I met you there. You had already been there—I don’t know how long. Too long. I guess you looked after me, as well as you could. You were the head student, the prince, but nobody envied you. We were all just trying to survive the program._

“What was the program like?” Connor asked.

Sharp feelings prickled through Markus. It was the spirit version of a shudder. Markus drew back, _it was bad._

Connor nodded. He took a long drink of water. The chill of it was something else to focus on. He drained the glass. He stared down at it.

“When...” Connor started, but his voice trailed off. He swallowed. “When I saw you in that basement—you said… you were surprised I was alive. Why?”

_Because they shot you._

“Where?”

_In the back. It was while we were trying to escape._

Connor straightened up, “Well, that explains something at least.”

If Markus had a body, he would have frowned. _What?_

In lieu of an answer, Connor set the glass down and left the kitchen, heading to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his shirt on the way, dropping it into the dry bath. He turned on the bathroom light.

The mirror showed pale skin. The yellow of the light made him look sick and waxen. The scar was like a thumb-sized dent in his stomach. It was puckered and red, but too scabbed to feel. He rubbed at it.

“They shot me,” Connor said.

 _And yet here you are_ , Markus said.

Connor pressed his fingers to his side, running them along barely noticeable, long surgical scars that crossed the side of his stomach. Underneath the skin graft, there was a criss-cross of surgical material.

His skin was warm. He felt the scars when he breathed, a tightness in odd places. He had been sown back together expertly, but a part of him remembered his body before. The cold made his hairs stand on end.

“And yet here I am,” Connor agreed, quietly.


End file.
